


Hangover

by valleyofthewind



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Everyone Is Gay, First Meetings, Humor, M/M, Mistakes, Tattoos, inspired by those shitty hangover movies, yeah you get the gist of it by now, you know the ones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-19 18:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valleyofthewind/pseuds/valleyofthewind
Summary: all hansol wanted was to have a few drinks, but now he has a tattoo of a complete stranger's name on his wrist and he can't remember anything he did last night. which is, well, sort of a big fucking problem





	Hangover

**Author's Note:**

> honestly? i really just wanted to write something really dumb and funny instead of something filled w loads of beautiful metaphors and emotional characters and shit. so yeah this is the most ridiculous thing you'll probably ever read and i apologise in advance

 

“Wait,” he says. “What the _fuck_ is that, Hansol?”

Hansol glances upwards. It’s taken Junhui exactly 21 minutes to find out about it.

The reason behind his knowing of this very precise fact is thanks to the clock on the wall which happens to be just behind their table, hanging neatly a metre or so above Junhui’s head. They two of them were supposed to meet at three; Junhui arrived five minutes late. He’d been reluctant to meet at first, but Hansol had insisted, claiming it was very, very, important, and rightfully so, he thinks, and Junhui upon arriving he’d teased Hansol about the several love bites on his neck, and then the two of them had ordered their meals, with Junhui banging on about how Hansol looked like a corpse warmed up in a microwave, joking about his supposed wild night out, with Hansol smiling and picking at his nails awkwardly.

Now the hands on the clock show 3:26 and Hansol thinks that Junhui, a mere couple of seconds ago, has finally realised – eyes widening, back straightening like a string of beads being pulled taut – the real reason Hansol called him here in the first place. And it’s not a pretty sight.

“Hansol, God,” Junhui repeats, dragging Hansol’s arm towards him and shoving up his sleeve. “The fuck’s this?” He leans back, subsequently pulling Hansol forward.

Not answering the question, Hansol snaps and takes his arm back to his own body, “Keep your voice down, alright?”

“Who the fuck’s Minghao? I’ve never heard of a Minghao.”

“Jun.”

“I mean, you, Sol? Of all people? And, seriously. Who is Minghao? Who’ve you been _hiding?_ ” Junhui meets Hansol’s eyes. “You’ve been single since like, forever, right? I mean, we’re talking Before Christ Like, 80 B.C. Just fucking around with people casually. And now I’m supposed to believe you’re actively participating in romantic rendezvouses–” can ‘rendezvous’ even be said in plural like that? can a French word really be that badly mispronounced?– “with some Chinese guy? I thought I knew all of your friends. I thought I would know who your partner, or, or, or lover, or summer fling would be, I mean, honestly, I don’t know a _Minghao._  Does Soonyoung know him?”

Hansol winces, interrupting his best friend with a, “Jun.”

Junhui closes his mouth and stares at the Hansol’s arm.

“I–” Hansol starts. “I haven’t been lying about anything.”

Junhui waits.

“You don’t know a Minghao. That’s for sure. You know why? You know why it’s for sure?” Hansol sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know one either. He’s certainly not a partner or lover. All right?”

Then he looks up, meeting Hansol’s pained expression, and that is the very, exact moment that everything dawns on him: Hansol’s awkward laugh when Junhui had teased him about the hickeys, Hansol’s milquetoast reaction to his joking about the supposed horny craziness of his night, the reason he’d said their meeting was urgent and could absolutely, no circumstances, be left for later. This makes Junhui gasp, leans forward then back again, and put his hand over his mouth. Then take it off. Then stare a little longer. “Wait,” he says. “Hold up. Hold up.”

“Jun–”

“Don’t tell me–”

“ _Shhh–_ ”

“You don’t remember?–”

“ _Junhui,_ ” snaps Hansol, grimacing. “God, just shut _up_.”

The couple two tables away from them are looking over, and Hansol picks his spoon up to sip some of the broth from his ramen. Noodle Mama was perhaps not the greatest place for Hansol to meet up with Junhui, boisterous and loud as he’s turned out to become in their recent months of living together, but this fast food restaurant’s ramen bowls are in a way therapeutic and simultaneously, ramen is the best hangover food there is – Junhui always says so himself. The point is that Hansol really, really needed that therapy in form of chicken udon noodle soup, since he is so hungover that he still feels vaguely tipsy despite six hours having passed since he woke up; and he is desperately in need of some sort of semblance to a distraction bigger than the small tattoo of a complete stranger’s name that now exists emblazoned onto his wrist.

Yes. That is supposedly a big fucking problem.

“Oh, God,” says Junhui, leaning forward again. “You don’t _know_ him? You don’t know him? This Minghao? The tattoo? You don’t remember?” He searches Hansol's face, eyes flickering in a wild manner. “Tell me it’s not true.”

At last, Hansol replies, voice as low as it can go, “Look. I wish it wasn’t true as much as whoever the hell this Minghao is.” Upon admitting the whole chaoticness of the situation out loud, he closes his eyes to massage his temples – he feels as though he’s reached the maximum, the ultimate record of a sort, for amount of migraines one can have in the space of a couple of hours – and when he opens them again Junhui is staring at the tattoo again. Tinting his voice with a slightly more annoyed tone, Hansol continues, “Stop _looking_ at it, then, won’t you? And, c’mon, Jun, stop looking at me like that, alright? Fuckin’ stressing me out. Shit.”

“How can I not look at it?” Junhui retorts. “I mean. You’re you. And that’s a tattoo.” He pauses right before switching tone to one of a more accusatory manner: “And, Sol, you know you should’ve called me straight away. Why are we sitting in _Noodle_ fucking _Mama_ talking about this? Why didn’t you tell me straight away? Who’s Minghao? I don’t know a Minghao. Do you know a Minghao? Oh, right. You don’t know a Minghao. Neither of us do!”

“I don’t _remember_ who it is. Big difference between not knowing and not remembering. I can’t remember, and you’re, quite frankly, alright?, being such an asshole about it.” Hansol puts his spoon down in exasperation, which promptly shuts Junhui up. At least – it shuts him up momentarily. It’s hard to get him to keep quiet for more than two, three minutes. “I should’ve called you, yes. I didn’t know how to tell you. I was trying to figure out where the hell I was, first of all. Alright?” He pauses. “Listen, I don’t know. I don’t know a Minghao, and if you don’t know one, either, I don’t know who does. Does Minghao know? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Okay? Alright? Okay. Alright, alright.” Another pause.

“Okay,” Junhui repeats, and realising that they’re merely repeating the same words of ‘reassurance’ over and over again he laughs; not in a completely gaily way but more a laugh in utter disbelief, making Hansol groan even though he fully understands how much of a laughable situation it is. In someone else’s eyes, that is. In his eyes, this is nothing short of a nightmare. “Hold up. Rewind for a second. You just said you trying to figure out where you were? I need a fill in.”

This was the part of the story that embarrasses him the most, and he almost doesn’t want to tell Junhui. He’d been planning on lying, but then realised that Junhui would’ve seen through it. Most likely immediately. “I woke up on one of those park swings,” Hansol admits, finally, after a moment of contemplation. He’s never been much of a good liar, anyway, subsequently deciding to suffer through telling Junhui the honest, cruel truth. “Like, one of those big, netted ones you can lie down on. You know which ones.”

“The park swings?” Yet again, Junhui bursts into laughter. Then stops and puts his hand over his mouth, shaking his head slightly. “Oh, God. You’re kidding. It got worse.”

Yet again, Hansol winces and says, “Shut up,” before launching into the next part of the story. “Do you know how embarrassing that was for me? Like some old drunk, passed out in the children’s park.” He stops the storytelling for a few seconds, calming the inexolerable wave of chagrin rising through his body. “I woke up around nine, and I knew that it was nine because I woke up to my phone calling.”

“ _Nine?_ ” Junhui repeats. “Nine o’clock on a Saturday morning? Weren’t there loads of people there? Fucking hell, Soonyoung.”

“I’m getting there,” Hansol says, stuffing himself with another mouthful of ramen. “So, I woke up at nine. On this _swing._ ” He furrows his eyebrows. “Everyone was, obviously, steering away from me. I mean, I reeked of alcohol, I guess. Like, I was passed out on a swing.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Anyway. Moving on. Next part.” Junhui looks at him, studying him closely. “So. Guess who was calling me.”

“Minghao,” Junhui says. He’s trying to conceal a grin. Hansol can tell.

“ _No,_ you absolute prick,” Hansol says, rolling his eyes. “Guess again.”

Junhui says, “Soonyoung?”

“Nope.”

“Cheol?”

“Nope.”

“Who?”

“It’s pretty bad.”

“It can’t be worse than waking up on a swing in a children’s park. Nine o’clock? I mean, seriously? How out cold were you?”

“My _manager_ was calling me. You know, I got an extra job at the grocery store downtown? He’d texted me to see if I wanted to work an extra shift today.”

“ _No_ ,” Junhui says. “You didn’t answer, right?”

“Fuck, no. I had a hangover like I’d never had before, I didn’t know where I was, I was nauseated as hell, still kind of drunk–”

“‘Kind of’?”

“–and, I mean, I barely knew how to open my phone. I just stared at the screen.” Hansol pulls a face. “And, then, as I was, like, regaining consciousness, I saw what time it was, registered my surroundings as I sat up, and that’s when I saw it.”

“Saw ‘it’? Saw what?”

“The fucking _tattoo,_ Jun, what else? God.”

Junhui groans as if just remembering the issue in front of their very noses. “You really don’t remember anything of it? Nothing? Not even one single, tiny prick of the needle?”

He does, actually, remember some parts of the actual night. He remembers being with Soonyoung, and getting ready with him, but then they went from the first club to the next, and suddenly he wasn’t with Soonyoung anymore, and he remembers meeting some guy who he made out with for a while, who he presumes is Minghao who he presumes is also the person who gave him the hickeys on his neck, and after meeting that complete daze of a guy, like a _Guess That Pokémon!_ shadow in his mind, he doesn’t really remember anything else. Not even a single prick of the needle. Who doesn’t remember getting their first tattoo? What exactly was he drinking?

Well, along with getting ready before the actual night, he remembers that he did have quite a lot to drink at the first club, and considering his bank account details he checked today: he had a lot more to drink at the second one. And, then he’d paid even more for that _Minghao_ on his wrist. Fuck. Fuck. It’s not even written even a nice font. Did ‘Minghao’ chose the font? It looked like the Lobster font to him. The fucking Lobster fucking font? Fucking hell. Can you believe it? What the hell was he thinking, doing that? Obviously, he wasn’t thinking. Or, he was thinking with his dick instead of his brain. Hansol omits all of his information to Junhui, who listens carefully, and then mumbles something about Kwon Soonyoung and about never being about trust him again, ever. Or, something along those lines.

“Okay, so, nothing?” Junhui says, eventually. The clock above him is showing that they’ve been sitting in Noodle Mama for almost an hour by now. “Not even like. Anything of his face? Have you checked with Soonyoung?”

“I’ve tried to,” says Hansol. “He hasn’t answered yet. I’ve called at least eight times.”

“Fucking hell.” A long pause. “I mean, okay, let’s be honest, here. Why aren’t we really, really freaking out right now? Hansol, that’s a tattoo. That’s a tattoo. It’s permanent. And it’s on your wrist. And you don’t know who the name on there even _is._ Isn’t that almost worse than getting a partner’s name tattooed and then breaking up? Or, at least, isn’t it somewhat on the same level?”

“I, I’ll have you know, am actually the one freaking the fuck out here, even if you’re chortling on about the whole situation, snapchatting about how stupid your best friend is, or whatever,” Hansol hisses. Junhui puts his phone down at this, muttering that that wasn’t what he was doing when Hansol had clearly seen him sneakily take a picture of the Lobster-font-writing done on his arm. “Jun, do you know how much laser tattoo removal costs? Because I googled it. I did. Let me tell you–”

“I don’t want to hear–”

“215000 to 540000 won. Depending on size and intricacy of tat. Yup. _Yup._ ”

Jun pulls himself out of his shortlived silence and says, “So, yeah, that’s a shit tonne of money that we don’t have to just be throwing around. Especially after the money spent _on_ the actual tattoo. You know, maybe you should’ve answered your manager’s calls. That extra shift wouldn’t have been too bad, after all.” Hansol glares at him, and Junhui continues. “You know what we have to do now?”

“I know what you’re going to say, and I already don’t like it.”

“Huh? How do you know?”

“Because I know you.”

Junhui scoffs. “No, seriously. Tell me.”

Hansol breathes in, and out, and says, all in under a good 30 seconds: “We’ve all watched those shitty Hangover movies together. The ones you watch so you can jack off to Bradley Cooper’s face? And his eye colour? And hair? Yeah. Well, yeah. We’ve seen all three of them, and I remember that. Clearly. Crystal clearly. You own the box-DVD set. Who even buys DVDs in 2018? So, yeah, Jun, I know you, and I can deduct from your pensive expression alone that you’re gonna be all like, ‘Well, let’s retrace your steps of the night, find the guy, and make sure that you two fall in love, so you don’t regret the tattoo’, and yaddayadda _yadda,_  and I don’t know if I can be on board with that or not, even if I've had the same thought once or twice. Right now, I’m leaning towards. absolutely fucking _never._ ”

A moment of silence. “I mean,” says Junhui, shrugging, not discouraged by Hansol's previous sharp words, “I was just thinking of finding this Minghao so you can like, see if he has a ‘Hansol’ tattoo. In a matching, equally as ugly font. ‘Cause that’d be a fun story.”

“Fuck,” says Hansol, now realising how big of a possibility Junhui’s words are. Meaning that he could, potentially, be able to say the following: he has a couple’s tattoo with a person he can’t even remember the face of. Whom he only knows the name of. Like some twisted, reality based version of an alternative universe where people have soulmates without knowing who they are. “Fuck. I didn’t even _think_ of that.”

“Well, anyway, Wolfpack or not, the first thing we’re doing,” Junhui starts, downing the last of his glass of water and standing up by the table, clock now showing 5:03 p.m., “is that we’re taking a visit to Soonyoung’s.”

Soonyoung’s first thought, having heard the entire story recapped from Hansol and small chip-ins from Junhui, is this: “Well, people always say you’ll experience the most small bumps in your life in your 20s. So, well, this just one of those small bumps.”

“First of all, no one says that,” Hansol snaps. “Second of all, Soons, a _small bump_ is that time you lost your keys and had to call me over at four a.m. This isn’t a small bump. It’s a Mount fucking Everest. It’s _permanent_.”

“I mean, he’s right.” Junhui takes a sip of the coffee he made for himself in Soonyoung’s kitchen. “For once.”

“Okay, okay,” says Soonyoung, also pouring himself a cup. He’s sitting by the table next to Junhui, whereas Hansol is standing by the counter, arms folded in a stubborn manner. “I think we all need to just calm down a notch.”

Turns out Soonyoung had just been sleeping all day, which is why he didn’t answer neither Junhui nor Hansol’s persistent phone calls. Thankfully, they both have an extra key to his shared apartment with Jisoo and Seungcheol – who aren’t at home right now, thank God; Hansol doesn’t need anyone else older than him to remind him of how bad the various mistakes he’s made are –  and could easily slip in after knocking loudly three times. Then, when they’d found Soonyoung passed out on his bed, they’d decided to simply just throw a glass of cold water on his face. Not even a friendly nudge, or a gentle roll. A glass of cold water. Well, it worked, didn’t it?

“Calm down?” Junhui says. “Why are you being an asshole?”

“Yeah, you’re kind of being a dickhead, Soons,” Hansol says.

“Look,” Soonyoung says, directing his next words to Hansol, “I don’t know shit, either. I have no idea why you woke up on a park swing. But, I’m sorry for leaving you at the club. Dick move, yeah. Totally dick-y. I get it. The thing is that I thought you’d be fine with that guy who was eating your face off. I thought you’d maybe like, kind of tipsily hook up with him, do the do, quick walk of shame tomorrow, and then it’d be, it’d be fine, and you’d never talk to the guy again save perhaps him calling you for some casual sex. I don’t know. Something like that. I didn’t know you were gonna have a _lot_ more to drink. Like, heavy spirits. If I would’ve known that, I would’ve stayed behind and helped you get home instead of letting an equally pissed stranger take you to some dodgy place to get dodgy matching tats.” Soonyoung pauses. “I mean, you know that, Sol. If I knew that was the case, I wouldn’t’ve gone home with Cheol. But you really, really looked like you were going to stay there all night with this Minghao dude. So, I just winked at you and said my goodbyes and got a taxi home like I thought you would’ve wanted me to. I mean, otherwise, if I made you go home, I would’ve been classified as a cockblocker of a sort, right?”

Hansol sighs. He contemplates Soonyoung’s words for a few moments, and as much as it pains him he feels the words leave his mouth: “You’re right. You’re right.”

“I, though, not _fully_ as gone as you were, do kind of remember what he looked like,” Soonyoung continues. This makes Hansol’s ears perk up, and even Junhui raises his eyebrows. Soonyoung thinks for a few seconds. “He had a sharp nose, I remember. He was a little taller than you, sharp cheekbones. Relatively long, black hair,” to which Junhui says, “No fucking shit he has black hair,” to which Soonyoung says, “Stop it, it could’ve been dyed,” and then, “How do you know?” to which Junhui huffs and says it was a joke and Soonyoung continues, “Although, everything was pretty hard to determine in the shitty lighting.” He smiles at Hansol, in the way only Soonyoung does. “He was cute, if my mind recalls it correctly.”

“Well, yeah,” Hansol says. “Why else would I make out with him?”

Soonyoung shrugs. “Looks aren’t _everything._ ”

“It was a gay club, Soonyoung, we weren’t exactly there for a quick chat, get to know each other glass of wine and a friendly hug,” Junhui says, rolling his eyes.

Ignoring him, Soonyoung says, “Where exactly do we go from here?

Hansol scratches his head, and when he takes his hand down to his lap he is, again, reminded of the reason he’s having coffee with Junhui and Soonyoung at six o’clock in the evening on a Saturday. “Well, we could search for people named Minghao living in Seoul, but I’m presuming that would take a hell of a long time.”

“Well,” Junhui says. “You can narrow it down, first of all.”

“Like?”

“I mean,” Junhui says. “Seoul’s population is around ten million. We can find out how many people there are named Minghao, which won’t be difficult I suppose, then we’ll find out how many people there are in around their 20s, and how many gay people there are in Seoul, approximately. We will’ve narrowed it down almost instantly.”

“Well, we don’t know for sure if he’s gay,” says Hansol.

Junhui and Soonyoung, sitting next to each other at the table, look at him.

“Hansol, babe,” says Soonyoung.

“Don’t ‘Hansol, babe’ me,” says Hansol, hauling himself up to sit on the narrow counter. The table does actually have four chairs around it, but isn’t there a great feeling linked with sitting on places you were told not to sit on, growing up? Kitchen counters, tables. Again, anything that could be used as a distraction from the crushing reality of his life he accepted thankfully, warmly, and with open arms. “He could be like, questioning. Or bisexual.”

“Hansol, babe,” says Soonyoung. “I used gay as a umbrella term. And,” he cracks a smile, “you two got matching tattoos. He’s hardly going to be the least bent fork in the drawer.”

“You know what? Fuck you.”

“Anyway, back to finding questioning Minghao who got a tattoo of bent Hansol’s name,” says Soonyoung pouring himself another cup of cheap instant coffee. “Assuming he _is_ gay, contrary to the popular belief–” a very strange thing about Soonyoung is that he’s the person you least expect to be the smartest in a room full of people, but then he’ll, completely out of the blue, slip in ‘contrary to the popular belief’ as if it’s a phrase one regularly slips into sentences, but then a few seconds later he’ll be back to spewing shit, sending people who haven’t figured out his personality yet into an absolute state of quandary– “we should ask everyone we know if they know a Minghao. Or, if they know someone who knows a Minghao.”

“Won’t they wonder why we’re asking?” Hansol says.

“So?” Junhui shrugs.

Soonyoung nods his head in agreement to Junhui, grinning at Hansol. “Let them wonder.” He picks his phone up from the table, tapping his password in. “I’ll ask Seungkwan. If anyone would know, it’d be him.”

 

 

 

_The stranger suddenly leans in and sloppily brings their lips together. And it’s messy. It really is. And Minghao wishes he could say he’s not enjoying it since it's a stupid one-time-thing based on his very own foolishness and tipsiness, but whoever this is is fucking good at what he’s doing. They’re severely uncoordinated, and it’s sloppy and slightly chaos yet good fun and suddenly the boy is backing up Minghao against the wall and straddling his hips slightly. Minghao audibly gasps whilst grabbing the back of his head as their bodies press closer to each other, hands raking through the stranger’s hair and up and down his neck. He pulls away for a second to catch a breath, and looks down whilst trying to disguise his awe. Failing to disguise his awe._

_“I’m Hansol,” the guy says, grinning in a mischievous way. “Nice to meet you.” His voice is deep and hoarse and he’s kind of out of breath and it is so overwhelmingly attractive of him that Minghao is about 82 percent sure he feels his body temperature rising on the spot, although it could be the alcohol speaking, or it definitely could be._

_Their lips easily glide together again, all tongue and the occasional bite, fitting together well. There’s no space between the two now – they’ve completely enveloped each other, and it's suddenly getting way too hot, and Minghao thinks Hansol notices as well because he’s pulling Minghao’s denim jacket down to his elbows and Minghao slides his hands underneath his t-shirt and holds his hip, hands roaming to his waist and back to his upper body again. Minghao thinks his head might physically implode as Hansol slightly grinds their hips together, making him moan under his breath._

_Hansol whignes quietly before resting his head against the wall behind Minghao. He sees this as an opportunity to lower his head a fraction to suck on Hansol’s neck. “Mm,” Hansol sighs. “You’re good at this.”_

_“You don’t have a partner right?” Minghao asks, in hindsight, trailing his head further down and pressing another kiss to the nape of Hansol’s neck._

_“Are you kidding?” Hansol says, laughing. “No. What’s your name?”_

_“Minghao,” says Minghao. “Can I buy you a drink?”_

_They get two Absolut Heavens, and then some – it’s unclear how many – Moscow mules. Cocktails, vodka. Minghao, he can handle vodka. Hansol, the hot guy in an unpleasantly ugly shirt, seems to be able to handle vodka. A while passes, and suddenly absinthe gets thrown into the picture, and Minghao wonders if that really is a super good idea. Like, vodka usually has an alcohol halt of 40 percent. It’s like, like drinking windscreen_ _washer_ _fluid._ _Absinthe, on the other hand, has the ABV of_ _45 to 74_ _percent. So. It’s natural to second guess drinking something that strong. It’s not as if he’d gladly pay the hospital bill for having to get his stomach pumped._

_Hansol’s the one to convince him that it would be good fun. Hansol, the piss-drunk stranger who was getting more attractive by every drink they have; wearing a shirt that’s getting worse by every drink they have; telling Minghao that absinthe is fine, that he’s had it loads of times before, and that the flavour of wormwood is totally the total best of totally everything, and that they just shouldn’t have so much because then they’d probably end up dead in a ditch somewhere – those are his actual words – and it’s finefinefinefine and so they share a little which in hindsight was no good idea since a piss-drunk Hansol telling a piss-drunk Minghao that everything is finefinefinefine is totally a total case of totally blind leading the totally blind, yet at the time they’re their Dumb and Dumber young, naïve selves and couldn’t stop to think proper– properly and eventually they leave the v– var– BAR and go outside and this is when the details start to be kind of sort of blurryuyy like, around n–now on so please bear withj yhem– yhem–THEM! The way things play out is anyway, kind of like, like:_

_“Soooooo,”  Hansol is like. “Is this yojur motorbike?” And Minghao is like: “Yeah, but maybe let’s like, not ride it now, hehe,” and that makes Hansol giggle, and he means that makes him GIGGGGGLLLLLLE. Like a hihihihihihihihihi-giggle. Who even giggles? “No nono,” Hansol is like, “it just you kmow makes you like a total highschoolromcombadassmaincharactersbigbrother that everyyyyyyyyyyyy girl in the movie totally wants to get dicked down by and ,me at age, well, whatever wanted to dicked down by too,” he pauses and continues, “like, Channing Tatum ooooooor someone,” and Minghao laughs his ASS off at this and says, “Channign Tatum is NOT attractive.” That’s what he says it like: “Channing Tatum is_ NOT _attractive.” He says “not” like NOT._

_HANSOL: “He so is. Fuc k you.”_

_MINGHAO: “Noooooo,     NO! And I’ve never, EVER seen him ride a motorbike.”_

_H: PAUSE._

_M: PAUSE._

_H: I think he does in like some movie like ummmmmmm, where they pretend to be cops, and like, there’s this car chase,_

_M: 21 Roads?_

_H: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that’s the one._

_Minghao laughs his ass off again and is like, “I’m glad you think I’m that superhotbigbrother though I mean that’s the look I’m GOING FOR, yeah, really,” and Hansol goes, “You’re being IRONIC,” and Minghao goes, “It’s called s ar castic,” and says it all fancily like he invented the language they’re speaking and Hansol goes, “Whatfuvkckingever do you wanna have sex on your motorbike sometime,” and Minghao goes, “Maybe when we’re not likeeeee totally wasted,” and Hansol goes, “We’re not wasted,” and Minghao giggles and goes, “Okaymaybe we’re not toally totally totally wasted but kind of wasted and it’s not a good idea you know,” and Hansol goes, “Okay when we’re not totally wasted do you wamna have sex on your motorbike,” and Minghao goes, “Sure.”_

_Hansol gets all serious, then, and looks like he’s suddenly remembered something serious like superduperfragicicikously serious and is like: “Minghao. I don’t think I can ever ride on your motorbike. My dad once told me he’d kill me if I ever rode on a motorcycle. Like, that was his number one and only dating rule. He told me, Hansol, I don’t care if you’re gay, I don’t care if you get a tattoo of Marilyn Monroe’s face on your forehead but you can’t date someone who rides a motorbike. They’re all donors on wheels.” Minghao stares at him and is like: “What’s a donor on wheels?” “Yo uuuuuu knooooow, they’re like livin g so dangerously that they’re ready to die and donate their organs at all times, and thus to my dad ‘donor on wheels’ are_ strictly prohibited _.” “Ohhhhh right yeah Igotyou.”_

_Can you imagine that? Thus. Strictly prohibited. He really said that. He IS SO SMART when he is drunk._

_“I don’t actually ride the motorbike that much just like when I go to bars tobehonest because, you know, I have to impress my rides home,” Minghao continues, and Hansol looks like he’s ready and wants to get fucked on the spot but instead says something like, “So you bring people home often,” and just now Minghao realises that there’s a huge crowd of people next to him that he hasn’t noticed previously and to this he says, “Oh, shit,” and then rememebers Hansol’s question and says that he doesn’t just have sex with anyone. Hansol raises his eyebrows and says that he doesn’t believe Minghao since he’s so fuckable and then he blushes and Minghao says the same to him and it seems that the two of them just can’t stop wordsfrom_

_slipping_

_out_

_of their m_

_ou                            th s._

_like water._

_Maybe this was a mistake. Oh well. Oh well. Oh well._

_“We’re so drunk,” Minghao says and realises that they’re basical7ly shouting back and forth because there are so many people around them and the music from the club is still pumping out beats and beats and ntsntsntsnts music and like Ed Sheeran and so many people around them are smoking which he finds totally disgusting so he says, “But at least we’re not smoking.”_

_Hansol agrees: “Smoking IS GROSS,” he shouts in return. “You don’t smoke?”_

_“No, I juts have piercings,” Minghao says. Hansol says, “And a motorbike.” Minghao sa y s, “Yeah what the hell do I do with my motorbike now?” at the same time as Hansol says, “Piercings? Why don’t we get tattoos?”_

_“TATTOOS?” Minghao is like._

_“Yeah, tattoos,” Hansol is like._

_“Of what?”_

_“Like our names. So we can remember this night for–ev–er.”_

_Minghao’s eyes widen. “_ Forever? _”_

_“Four words. Fo–ruh–ev–ur.”_

_“Fo–ruh–ev–ur,” Minghao is like._

_“Forever.” “Yeah, but, tattoos are forever.” “That’s the whole thing.” “You know what, you’re right, we should get tattoos to stay on forever so we rememebr each other’s names because what if I forget yours after tonight and wake up tomorrow missing you then I’d totally need a tattoo of your name you know because phone numbers don’t exist or anything.” “Are you beiugn sarcastic.” “No, I’m serious.” “Okay well then I’ve been thinking that MAYBE,” “Maybe what,” “I should get Channing Tatum’s name tattooed on my ass.” “HAHAHAHH ON  YKOUR ASS. WHEEZE.” “So whenever I have sex my partner get evebn more turned on.” “PFFFTTTSTOPITSTOPITSTOPIT.” “Or turned off if it’s your case hihhihihih,” Hansol giggles, and Minghao says, “Listen, why don’t we drink again before I change my mind about the whole forever thng like you know four-syllables-Foruhevur,” and Hansol says, “You’re right! Let’s drink! To getting MATCHING TATTOOS!”_

_And so they drink some more. Then Hansol is like, “Are we gonna put surnames on as well?” “No, fuck surnames.” “Hm. Minimalism,” and he smiles because he used the word minimalism and he is just so imcredibly inctedibly intelligent when he’s drunk._

 

 

 

“Remember when I said that if anyone would know, it would be Seungkwan?” Junhui says. “Well.”

Hansol looks up. It’s getting late, the sun is almost setting, and they haven’t gotten much closer to finding this stranger of the name ‘Minghao’. Since he doesn’t know his surname, everything gets a little more difficult, seeing as it’s impossible to check the Yellow Pages – does anyone even do that anymore? – and is even more difficult to find via Facebook, since there are thousands of Minghaos and he has no idea where the hell to start. Not being able to use the internet in the way he wants makes him feel like his technologically impaired grandmother who writes ‘Dear Google’ into the search bar when she wants to find a recipe online. God. He fancies smashing his head against the keyboard as he continues a relentless search through the what feels like infinite amount of Minghaos who live in Seoul or general Seoul area on Facebook.

“Does Seungkwan know him?” Hansol asks, and even Soonyoung, sitting next to him, shuffling a deck of cards for no apparent reason perks his ears up a little.

“Um,” Junhui says, scratching his head. “No.”

“Fuck,” Hansol says. He almost groans it out, feeling himself merge into a state of total exasperation. “Doesn’t Seungkwan know someone who knows him? Like Michael?”

Soonyoung chips into the conversation with a quick question. “Who’s Michael now again?”

“Gay Michael,” Hansol says. “Remember? From my art therapy class?”

“You went to an art therapy class?” Soonyoung asks, cracking a grin and shuffling the cards on the table again. They make that satisfying _fffffffrppp_ sound, folding over each other. Hansol reckons Soonyoung just learnt how to shuffle cards and wants to flex about it every chance he can get.

Junhui replies before Hansol even has the chance to solemnly explain himself, “Yes, he went to one his freshman of college, and it was a mistake. Moving on.”

“I mean, yeah,” is all Hansol says.

Soonyoung puts the cards down and faces the two of them. “So, what do we do now?”

“I still think retracing your steps is the best idea,” Junhui says. “Like, maybe you’d start to remember some things if you saw your surroundings again. Like, you know, what they do in _The Hangover._ ”

“In _The Hangover_ they wake up with a tiger in their hotel room,” Soonyoung jokes. “A tattoo is hardly as serious as that.”

“Soonyoung, can you shut the fuck up?” Junhui says, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s obviously as serious as that, since Hansol looks more and more like he’s about to break into cold sweat by every second passing. Okay? Stop being an tosser and trying to downplay this. You’re just deflecting because you feel like it’s partially your fault.”

Soonyoung goes quiet for a few moments.

Hansol clears his throat awkwardly. “It’s fine, J. He was just joking.”

“No, no,” Soonyoung says. “He’s right. I’m being a wanker. It _is_ because I kind of feel it’s kind of my fault.” Kind of kind of kind of kind of kind of.

“Dude, it’s not your fault,” says Hansol and turns to face Soonyoung who’s looking at the ground, sheepish face in place. “I was obviously the one who was stupid enough to drink loads of Moscow mules and like, mess with absinthe and stuff, so–”

“ _Absinthe?_ ” Junhui exclaims. “That’s what you were drinking?”

“Yeah, I think that was what we had, which wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had, I admit–”

“Wait,” Soonyoung says. “If you think you drunk absinthe and you could even name the cocktails you had. That means you– you know–”

“–you _remember something_ ,” Junhui finishes, finally showing a face with an expression somewhat resembling happiness, and Soonyoung and Junhui look at each other and share a smile; snappy tones from Junhui’s previous bout of irritance now long gone.

“Um,” Hansol says.

“Is there anything else?” Junhui inquires. “Like, anything more of what he looked like? Or maybe what you did together? Or, or, or, anything, really?”

Hansol thinks until he gives himself another headache. He had no idea where the information of Moscow mules and absinthe came from. It didn’t feel like he had to pull it from the depths of his brain. It was just– there. So, now all he had to do was remember more crucial information that could lead him to his supposed ‘soulmate’.

And he can't remember anything else.

“No, nothing,” says Hansol, and he sighs, and Soonyoung and Junhui sigh, too.

“Are there really that many Minghaos in Seoul?” Soonyoung asks, leaning over to look at Hansol’s computer screen. “And wouldn’t it be impossible to know it was him? Maybe we’re searching at the wrong end of the stick.”

“That’s… not how you use ‘wrong end of the stick’, but I definitely agree with you,” Junhui says, now joining them by the table again. “Maybe I could try typing his name in Chinese characters instead of Korean.” He leans over and does just that, using some Chinese keyboard application he finds online, but this time there are no results whatsoever. Not even a single person. They all groan in chorus.

“Fuck,” Hansol says again, smartly.

“Sol, I know you weren’t one hundred percent keen on the idea,” Junhui starts, putting his hands on his shoulders, “but by now the best option is honestly retracting your steps from last night. You know, to see if you remember anything else.” He pauses to think. “And if we don’t pick up the pace this story’ll get boring aside from those really fucking stupid drunk flashbacks.”

Soonyoung frowns. “Apart from what?”

Junhui, remembering that fourth wall breaks in written fiction aren’t really a thing, scratches his head and says, “Nothing.”

“You’re honestly right,” says Hansol. “And I hate it.”

“Yeah, can you guys get the fuck out of my flat,” Soonyoung says, acting as if he doesn’t share it with two other people who are currently nowhere to be found.

“You’re coming with us,” Junhui says. He grins as Soonyoung shoots him a glare, then protests via using a long string of something along the lines of fuckyouthere’snofuckingwayI’mcomingalong and Iwanttosleepyoufuckingassholes and other pleasantries. Soonyoung, he's just like that.

“It’s _late_ ,” Soonyoung whignes.

Hansol glances at the computer’s digital clock. It’s not even 8 p.m.

“I’m sure it is,” Junhui says, dragging him off the seat. Hansol shuts the laptop off, standing up alongside Junhui. The two of them move to the corridor to put their shoes on and leaving, pulling Soonyoung behind them and ignoring his desperate pleas – and obviously his insults; as flattering as they are – to leave him the hell alone.

Junhui and Soonyoung merely raise their voices above it. “Which bar was it?”

Hansol replies, “First we went to Andro, then MM.” Andro is short for Androphilia. MM stands for Meat Market.

“Are we taking the tube?”

“Leavemealoneyouguysc’mon.”

“Nah. Let’s take the bus. It’s closer.”

“PLEASEIwanttosleep.”

“Bus 57, right?”

“C’MON.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Fuck you guys,” says Soonyoung, now giving up and reluctantly putting his shoes on, to which Junhui and Hansol say, “Just shut _up_ ,” in chorus.

And that is the start of their _Hangover_ Trilogy adventure – on Junhui's behalf, it is sadly with a lack of Bradley Cooper (you know, that guy who voices a fucking CGI racoon?). They take bus line 57 to some street a block away from Andro, Hansol not remembering anything; talk to the bartender for some clues, Hansol not remembering anything; Soonyoung dicks around and buys himself a beer, Junhui hits him in the stomach and complains about for once having to be the responsible one of the group, Hansol not remembering anything; they walk to MM from there, Junhui talking about lingerie, Hansol telling him to stop being horny in broad evening-light; they arrive at MM, and as they’re arriving at the car park right next to it, Hansol announces that he’s just, upon seeing this location, remembered something.

“What is it?” Junhui inquires, as Soonyoung shakes his shoulders and tells him to think! properly!

“Fuck, okay,” says Hansol. “I think that Minghao owned a motorcycle. Because we were like, talking about that a lot. And we were standing just here.” He gestures at the car park. There are no motorbikes in sight. Well. Okay. Fuck him, then.

“A motorbike?” Soonyoung says, thinking. “Would you remember what it looked like?”

“I’m not sure,” says Hansol. “Maybe?”

Inside the bar, they ask the bartender about a maybe-regular-or-someone-at-least who rides a motorbike to the bar and was here last night. The bartender squints at them, and they have to repeat the question in a louder tone, but he squints even more as if he’s deep in thought and then says, “Motorcycle, huh… Wonwoo, maybe–?” he’s talking to himself– “Wonwoo–” he now shouts this name across the bar– “get your ass over here.”

The guy named Wonwoo comes over after a few more calls of his name. “Yeah?”

“You own a motorbike, right?”

Wonwoo nods awkwardly.

“Um, thanks, but this isn’t who we’re looking for,” says Hansol. “The guy we’re looking for isn’t called Wonwoo.”

“You’re looking for someone?” Wonwoo asks. The three of them nod. “And he rides a motorbike?”

“Yeah, and comes here often, apparently,” says the first bartender.

“Minghao, maybe?” Wonwoo says, scratching his head.

“Minghao?” Hansol repeats, loudly, making the two bartenders jump, startled; at the same time as Soonyoung clenches his fist and yells, “Yes!”; at the same time as Junhui ignores his friends, sensibly clears his throat, and says, “So, you know Minghao?”

Wonwoo, after blinking a few times, says, “Well, yeah. He comes here relatively often, and,” he pauses, “yeah, we share an interest in the same bands. He usually requests songs to me, and I always have to tell him that I’m the bartender and not the DJ. Yeah, he’s kind of a special personality, but he’s hot and, um, anyway I don’t know much about him apart from that he likes indie music. So yeah.” He awkwardly grins at Soonyoung, Junhui and Hansol, who are staring at him, listening to his words intently. “Why are you looking for him?”

Hansol looks down at the ground. He then proceeds to lift his arm up and show the bartenders the reason they’re here at the very moment.

Wonwoo, he hardly reacts apart from raising his eyebrows a hint. His colleague, on the other hand, stifles a laugh and, upon Wonwoo having elbowing him, apologises for it profusely. “I mean,” he says. “I’ve just never experienced something like this. And I’ve been a bartender for like, five years,” to which Wonwoo says, “Jeonghan, be quiet, please.”

Bartender 1, Jeonghan, says, “So, you don’t remember him? Not at all?”

“No,” says Soonyoung, grinning, “he woke up on a park swing and can’t remember anything apart from that they drunk Moscow mules together and that Minghao rode a motorbike.”

Hansol nods. “Yeah. But now _you_ can help us find him.”

Wonwoo looks at their anticipating faces. “Well.” Soonyoung is half leaning over the counter. “I don’t really have his number, or anything.” Hansol is just about to make some sort of angered noise in sheer frustration, almost biting his lip in half by now, when Wonwoo smiles and continues, “But I maybe know someone else who does.”

 

 

 

_“Yeah, hi, we’re getting our names tattooed on each other,” Mingnghao says, ad it’s honestly a wonder that the tattoo shop still is open because it’s like crazy late like the sun is almost rising probably. Or maybe it’s rising somewhere else in the world anywya, “My name’s Minghao and his is, uh.”_

_The guy in the tattoo shop looks at them SK–EP–TI–CAL–LY. Like his eyebrows are SO, so raised like (  eyebrow one and eyebrow two ) (those parentheseses were supposed to represent the eyebrows but like, rotated and going up)._

_HANSOL: My name’s Hansol and it means big pine tree_

_MINGHAO: Oh really hihi mine means something I don’t know hihi_

_HANSOL, ALSO GIGGLING: Okay something-I-don’t-know_

_TATTOO GUY IN TATTOO SHOP: SILENCE._

_TATTOO GUY IN TATTOO SHOP Uhhhhhh so do you two have designs ready or do you want to look at our font catalogue_

_MINGHAO: Font catalogue!!!!_

_HANSOL: Let’s just_

_Get_

_Times New Roman 12_

_MINGHAO: F U CK NO_

_HANSOL: Like um_

_MINGHAO: Fuck off_

_HANSOL, DYING OF LAUGHTER: memories of college_

_TATTOO GUY, PISSED OFF: Are you two sure you want this or are you just wasting our time_

_Minghao looks at the guy in the tattoo shop, and then at Hansol, who is still wearing that disgusting ugly top but looks so lovable and hot and is the guy he couldn’t stop making out with on their walk to here. And in that moment getting a tattoo to remember him and his cute cute cute curly hair and big eyes and soft LIPS forever seems like The! Best! Idea! He’s! Ever! Had!, so he’s like: “Yeah, I totally want to get a tattoo but I think I just want something more minimalistic so I’m going to get something that reminds me of you. Is that o k a y?”_

_“Yeah, sure,” Hansol is like. “I, I thijnk I’m still getting your name, though, if that’s okay. Because I like your name and I’d like to have it somewher e on me.”_

_“It’s your choice,” Minghao is like._

_“I REALLY like you,” Hansol is like, and Minghao replies that he really, really, really likes him too and before they forget where they are the tattoo guy interrupts them once again. “So, what are you getting if you’re not getting his name?” he asks this pointedly in Minghao’s direction, and Minghao replies something along of the lines of Okay, so, I was thinking…_

 

 

 

The next day, when Minghao realises he has a tattoo of a pine tree on his wrist, he has never been more confused in his entire life.

 

 

 

“ _Michael from art therapy class?_ ” Hansol exclaims, and gay Michael from art therapy class in his freshman year of college shows him his best smile before asking, “Hansol? Black box Hansol? Is that you?”

“You’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” Hansol says. “I literally asked you–” he looks at Junhui with a glare– “if Seungkwan knew anyone who knew him. And I specifically said gay Michael from art therapy class. And you were all like, No, no one else knows, let’s go retrace your steps and yadda-fucking-yadda.”

“Yeah, I remember, because that’s when I asked when and why the hell you ever went to art therapy class,” Soonyoung chips in.

Junhui scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Okay, so, I didn’t ever get around to asking Seungkwan if he knew anyone who would know. Because I didn’t think there was literally only like five other fags in this entire city. But apparently, there is a severe shortage of gays _we don’t know.”_

Hansol pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re such an asshole, J.”

Soonyoung decides to chip in once again. No one asks for it. But he does it, nonetheless. “You know when straight girls go all, Oh, I know this gay dude, maybe you know him, and you always want to pull the Well, not all gay guys know each other, you’re just ignorant, and all that moral lesson shit? Yeah, well, maybe it turns out we all do know each other.”

“Soonyoung,” says Hansol. “Please, be quiet. For once.”

“Okay, so,” says Michael, still smiling, but now mildly uncomfortable. “Why are you three on my doorstep and how did you find my address? And who are you, exactly?”

Hansol lets out a deep sigh. “These are my two friends Junhui,” Junhui nods, “and Soonyoung,” Soonyoung does the finger guns at him, “and Wonwoo gave us your address because he thought you may know who Minghao is.”

Michael lips part in pleasant surprise. “Wonwoo? Cute bartender Wonwoo?”

“Um, are there more than one?” Soonyoung asks.

“Well,” Michael says, inspecting his nails. “We don’t need to get into that now.”

“Listen, Michael from Hansol’s art therapy class,” Junhui says. “We don’t need to know if you have the hots for bartender Wonwoo or any other human of the same name. We need to know if you know a Minghao who rides a motorbike and drinks Moscow mules.”

“What is this, the Spanish inquisition?” Michael raises his eyebrows. “Why do you need to know?”

“This,” Hansol says.

“Oh, God,” comes Michael’s reply. “This isn’t some practical joke, right? There are no hidden cameras?” Now getting bored of the reactions to his ugly tattoo, Hansol rolls his eyes as Michael winces and he rolls his eyes even harden when he has to pull the whole that no, it’s not a joke, yes, he can’t remember, thing all over again, and can they please just move on to finding Minghao?

“Oh, sweetie.” That’s exactly what Michael used to say back in college, too. For instance, the time Hansol made a fool out of himself for just painting a huge, black box when they were supposed to paint a picture to represent who they were inside. So, the thing was that Hansol watched a lot of anime the summer before he started college, and he realised that the characters everyone wanted to get their back split open by were the cool, mysterious guys; the pained, quiet artists. That’s why he took an art therapy class to begin with. And he had so bad wanted to maintain the effigy of a cool, mysterious kid who did things like paint black boxes to represent his personality, but when he’d done presenting his project and had gotten a D for at least handing something in, all Michael had said was, “Oh, sweetie.”

Maybe some people never change. At _least_  Hansol did. 

“Well, you are in luck today,” gay Michael from art therapy class says. “I just happen to know Xu Minghao from the soles of his feet to the birthmark on his forehead.”

“Um,” Soonyoung says, and Hansol and Junhui stare at Michael as he bursts out into laughter and continues by saying: “I’m fucking with you guys. I don’t know him that well. We worked together for a couple of months and we’re friends. I suppose you could say,” and so Hansol asks, “Where did you work?” and Michael says, “That would be O’Leary’s. The sports bar over on Laurel Avenue, you know,” and Hansol says, “You like sports?” and Michael says, smiling, “No.”

“So, okay,” Junhui says, looking at Michael weirdly. The three of them are still standing outside his apartment as he stands in the doorway. Normally, by now, they would’ve invited you inside for a glass of water and somewhere to sit, but maybe Michael didn’t fuck with the expectations of society. “But you do have some way of contacting Minghao. What was his surname? Xu?”

“Yeah, Xu Minghao. I know where he lives.” Michael thinks for a few seconds. “Ilmin Street. Just by that big park there, you know? I can’t really remember the number or anything, but it was a green apartment building.” They continue looking at him. He starts laughing again. “I’m fucking with you guys. Number 16. I’ve been there a few times. Nice place he’s got, I guess. I don’t know if he’ll be home, though, obviously, ‘cause I can’t really read minds.”

“Yeah, totally,” says Soonyoung.

“Yeah,” says Hansol, nodding.

“Thanks for all the help, Michael,” says Junhui, putting on his best, most polite smile, and Michael’s reply comes: “Anytime,” before he shuts the door and doesn’t let them say anything else.

As they’re walking towards Ilmin St., coincidentally – or the lack of it being a coincidence; it’s really not that difficult to put the pieces together – right next to the park Hansol woke up in, the three of them discuss Michael’s strange attitude.

Soonyoung says, “Maybe Minghao is like an old ex-boyfriend he doesn’t want to let go of.”

Junhui says, “I genuinely think they were fuck-buddies before. You could tell it in the way he acted.”

Soonyoung says, “Maybe _he_ has a Minghao tattoo, too.”

Hansol sighs and says, “He’s just like that. Honestly. He was like that in college too. He hasn’t changed at _all_. I mean, he was the guy who’d just walk around with playing cards everywhere to show off magic tricks. Like, the type of guy you’d actually expect to be in an art therapy class.”

After this, they instead discuss what the _actual fuck_ Hansol is going to say to Minghao when they finally meet up. Or what the actual fuck Minghao is going to say to _him._ Or what the fuck they’re going to do from here. Soonyoung reckons they should just meet up and then see what happens. Junhui reckons he should at least prepare to start a GoFundMe for the laser removal surgery. Hansol reckons he would rather die than actually meet up with Minghao.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” Junhui says, shoving him a little. “After all this effort we’ve gone through.”

“I’m just saying it’s getting kind of late,” Hansol says. “So, what if we just call it a day and then, you know, go back tomorrow–”

“ _Fuck_ that.” Soonyoung shoves Hansol, too, from the other direction, harder than Junhui did. “You dragged me out of bed for this. You’re going the fuck to his apartment. And you’re going to capture his heart back like a fucking _man_.”

“Um,” Hansol says. “I don’t think that was part of the–”

Soonyoung interrupts him again. “That sounds like quitter’s attitude. Where’s the man who drinks absinthe and gets tattoos of stranger’s names?”

“He’s a long gone  _idiot_ ,” Hansol hisses.

“I mean,” Junhui says. “Yeah. Maybe that wasn’t the best advice, Soons.”

All of a sudden, they’ve walked down most of Ilsan St. and are now standing outside Minghao’s green apartment building. Number 16. They look at the building register and find that he lives in apartment 1301 – first door on the third floor. It’s now actually getting late, his phone tells him it’s almost midnight, and he wonders if Minghao really will be home, and now he’s getting really, really, really anxious like about-to-be-sick-anxious but he knows that if he goes home now he’ll only feel worse and he really just has to go and face his fears. Inside his head, he mentally prepares a few lines in his head. Things like: I’m sorry, This was probably my fault, I’m stupid, Let’s start a GoFundMe, Blame me. Happy, positive shit. You know the deal.

As he’s walking up the stairs, he realises that Junhui and Soonyoung are still trailing after him. “Guys,” he starts, “isn’t it better if I do this alone?”

The two of them look at each other, then back at him. “Sol, you’re completely pale,” Junhui points out. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? We were thinking of just standing by the side, hiding behind a corner, in case you like, faint. Or die.”

Hansol gulps. “I’ll be fine. Really. I need to do this on my own.”

And so with that, Soonyoung and Junhui say their Good lucks, their Update us’, and then they set off down the stairs again, and Hansol is so, so, so, so, so alone. Holy shit. He’s standing outside the first apartment on the third floor, 1301, and he feels himself almost cold sweating. Maybe he should’ve had a joint before doing this. Would that’ve been a smart idea? Probably no. Actually, that would’ve been a terrible idea. Okay, _shit_. He just has to do this now.

He knocks on the door.

An entire century passes. A thousand thoughts leap through his mind. He repeats the phrases in his head: _I’m sorry, This was probably my fault, I’m stupid, Let’s start a GoFundMe, Blame me, I’m sorry, This was probably my fault, I’m stupid, Let’s start a GoFundMe, Blame me, I’m sorry, This was probably my fault, I’m stupid, Let’s start a GoFundMe, Blame me,_

And then the door opens, and a man with a questioning look on his face stands on the other side of the threshold. “Hello?” he asks.

Hansol forgets the fuck out of his phrases, and suddenly glues his eyes to the floor. “Um,” he says, intelligently. “Are you Xu Minghao?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Minghao says, and Hansol still can’t bring himself! To look at him! What the hell is wrong with him! He remembers that Soonyoung said he sort of remembered how Minghao looked and that he was attractive, and Wonwoo said he was hot, which makes this whole thing even worse, and now he just really wants to die even more– “Uh, did you want something, or?”

Hansol had no idea why he thought Minghao would recognise him, but now he’s feeling humiliated that Minghao has no idea who he is even though he didn’t know who Minghao was either and he feels so embarrassed that he went on this whole search party when Minghao was in his apartment just chilling and now he feels dumb and– “It’s kinda late,” Minghao continues awkwardly. “Who are you?”

Hansol looks up. He meets Minghao’s eyes. And forgets his phrases once again. So, instead, being the smart person he is, he simply stutters out an answer he racked from the seventh level of hell in his brain. “Yeah, I’m here from Save the Children. Care to donate some money for kids in need?”

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ Hansol hopes someone buries him alive. He swears to god. Please, just end him.

Minghao’s knitted eyebrows could knit several scarves and, subsequently, several pairs of socks. “You don’t look very, uh, official. How do you know my name?” He squints, taking in Hansol’s sweaty face, his casual outfit, his arms that are behind his back to hide the tattoo, and continues: “Is this some type of prank?” He looks at Hansol with an even more skeptical look on his face, now folding his arms and leaning against the doorway. Holy. Mother of God, he _is_ attractive, and it’s currently _tearing Hansol apart._ “Did Seokmin send you here?”

“Seokmin?” Hansol asks. “No, no, I don’t know a Seokmin. I work for um, The Red Cross, that’s all.”

“You said Save the Children?”

“Yeah, totally. We save the children. And stuff.”

“No, no _, you_ said _you_ work for Save the Children.”

Hansol lets out a nervous laugh. “I’m pretty sure I know what I work for.”

“You don’t seem very sure.”

“Look, are you going to donate money or not?”

Minghao rolls his eyes. He’s hot. He’s so, so, hot. Like the pained-artist-mysterious-anime-protagonist-hot that Hansol aspired to be when he was a college freshman, but the thing is that Minghao is actually pulling it off and it hurts him a little (a lottle). How did he manage to get a guy like this? Even if they both were completely wasted. _How?_ “I’m not donating money to you before you show me some sort of official legitimation and aren’t just some guy Seokmin sent here to piss me off.”

“I don’t _know_ a Seokmin,” Hansol groans, exasperated, and since he’s getting more and more annoyed at Minghao not believing his obviously fake lie, he can feel his anxiety dissipating. And he feels the nerves being replaced by something else. Something stronger. The urge to tell the truth – and to also be a little cocky while doing just that.

“But do you have any official legitimation?” Minghao asks once again. “Any legal proof as to why you have my name?”

“Sure, I do,” Hansol says, and he pulls out his arm from behind his back, showing Minghao the tattoo.

A tiny bit too late, he realises that this maybe wasn’t the best way to reveal it. In fact, a few seconds in hindsight, he can conjure up at least 30 different ways that would’ve been better ways to reveal it.

Minghao’s initial reaction? Shock. His mouth opens, closes, then opens again. Then he stares at Hansol and, to Hansol’s surprise, simply lifts up his own arm and shows off a tattoo he has on the same wrist. But on Minghao’s there is no name in no ugly font. Instead, a pine tree. Like, the outline of a pine tree. Like, how six year old’s draw Christmas trees. What Minghao says to break the dead silence, lying hot in the air, is: “I’m glad I found the person who can explain this.”

“Oh, God,” Hansol groans. He puts his hands in his palms briefly, but then looks up to Minghao again. “My name means pine tree. So, that’s probably why.”

Minghao laughs. Dulcet. Fucking. Tones. Look at him using words like ‘dulcet’. Shit. So, maybe he’s whipped, and he’s only known the guy for a few minutes. Minghao continues laughing so hard that Hansol wonders if he’s on some strange acid trip. “I’ve been so fucking confused all day. I asked all my friends why the hell I would get a pine tree tattooed drunk, and I’ve been googling about pine trees, and I’ve been to every tattoo parlor in town to see if I was there yesterday but not a single one could give me a clear reply.” He smiles. Ear to ear. Cheek splitting grin. “I found you! You’re the pine tree. And, you have _my name_ on you.” Minghao pauses to look at Hansol’s wrist again. “Holy shit. You have my name on you. Okay. That’s terrifying.”

“It’s terrifying as _fuck_ ,” Hansol says.

“How did you find me?” Minghao says, opening the door to invite Hansol inside. “Oh my God, this is so embarrassing.” His mysterious-guy demeanor seems to be crumbling. Well, he said ‘Oh my God’ in front of Hansol. So, his black skinny jeans and piercings don't really mean anything anymore. “You have my name on you. Fuck. I’m so sorry. Come inside, please.”

They take their shoes off and walk inside the flat. It’s a two-roomer consisting of a kitchen slash living room area slash bedroom and a small bathroom. Minghao apologises for the mess, and Hansol can’t help but notice that it really _is_ messy. Messy in the way Junhui would slaughter him for. But it’s messy more in a cozy way in lieu of a pigsty way. There’s paints and books strewn everywhere, a few clothes lying on the sofa that seems to be a bed, too, and there are pots still on the stove in the kitchen; filled with what seems to be pasta cooked a few hours ago. Before they sit down at the tiny table by the fridge, Minghao clear away his pens and paper and an old coffee mug and asks Hansol is he wants some tea or some coffee or some biscuits and Hansol says that he’s fine, really, but Minghao insists so Hansol says that tea would be great.

As the water is boiling, Minghao runs a hand through his hair and says, “How exactly did you _find_ me?”

“It’s a long story,” Hansol says. “Involving a lot of mutual friends. And a lick of inspiration from those _Hangover_ movies my best friend slash roommate is obsessed with.”

“I’ve got time,” Minghao says, smiling, and all of a sudden Hansol is nervous again. He’s in the kitchen slash living room slash bedroom of a hot stranger who he guess he kind of knows somehow, and now he has to make himself look hard-to-get despite having chased Minghao around for hours.

And so Hansol tells him the story. From waking up in the swing, to Noodle Mama, to Soonyoung’s kitchen, to Androphilia, to MM, to Wonwoo, to Michael, to Minghao’s doorstep. He explains that he really had prepared to say something proper, but upon seeing Minghao he’d completely forgotten everything and that the whole charity was just something he pulled out of ass. To this, Minghao starts laughing again. Hansol feels as though he’s whole again.

They drink green tea together. They discuss their tattoos, discuss that the tattoo of Minghao’s name really is _hideous,_ and laughing about it lifts the weight of his chest a little more. Well, the lifelong commitment thing freaked him out to say the least. It still freaks him out. But at least he has someone to share the embarrassment and freaking out with. After this, they discuss what they did together when they were drunk, and they come to the conclusion that they really have no idea about anything, and Minghao apologises for Hansol sleeping out on a park swing instead of inside his apartment, and Hansol says it’s probably not his fault. Talking about everything feels surprisingly refreshing. They both have regrets, but they can talk about it openly without it being _too_ awkward. And then they start talking about the parts they still do kind-of-sort-of-remember.

“We didn’t have sex, did we?” Minghao says, after taking a long sip of his tea.

Hansol gulps. How many times has he gulped today? Does he have any saliva left in his mouth? Or like, anywhere in his body? He doubts it. Is that how biology even works? Fuck. This is why he studied creative writing. “I don’t think so. I think we decided to uh, not to. We just kind of, made out.”

“Yeah,” Minghao says. “I’m glad we didn’t. You know. Have sex.”

“Me too,” Hansol says.

“Not that I wouldn’t h–”

“It’s okay,”

“It’s just that, I’m glad we didn’t because I want to you know, get to know you a little more first, so, you’re not just some guy who could’ve been a one night stand–”

“Minghao,” Hansol says, smiling. “I get you,”

Minghao smiles back at him. “This is just kind of funny, because I don’t really know anything about you. And yet here we are.”

Hansol looks at Minghao. He pauses for a few moments. Then takes a deep breath and says, “Well, I’m Chwe Hansol, I’m 25, I’m currently working in publishing with a side job at the grocery store working shifts whenever I can, my blood type is A, I’m an aquarius, I own a lot of hats, I used to hate myself for being mixed but I’ve grown to accept it, I hate quinoa, I prefer cats over dogs, I like mango juice, and I’ve never ridden a motorcycle because my dad says everyone who does is a donor on wheels. Is that enough for you? I can keep going.”

Minghao looks at Hansol. There’s a sort of dreamy look on his face. Or, maybe that’s just what Hansol wants to see. “That’s enough for me.”

Hansol grins. “How about we start over?”

Minghao rolls his eyes, but he has the exact same expression as Hansol does. “What is this, _The Vow_? A shake of the hands, a bow, introducing ourselves anew? Exchange of business cards?”

That’s exactly what Hansol had in mind. So, they shake hands, and introduce themselves as if they’re just meeting for the first time. In Minghao’s small kitchen space, right next to a fridge omitting some sort of strange high pitched noise; completely the polar opposite the first time they exchanged names in a hot, sweaty, packed club, after they’d just eaten each others faces off in some sort of horny, cataclysmic daze.

 

 

 

_“No, no, no, SERIROUSLY,” Minghao says, “You can not come into my house it’s such a mess and it’s so small and emabrrassing and there is just no way. I’m sorry Hansol but you just can’t stay at my flat I would be ashamed.”_

_“Okay, well, then I’ll just camp out in this park until morning,” Hansol says, “because I don’t want to forget where you live and then lose you. So I’ll sleep here. And then I’ll see you in the mornign.”_

_Minghao shakes his head shakeshakeshake sidetoside. “I can’t let you sleep in a PARK.”_

_“It’s fine. I mean it’s FIIIIIINE. I just can’t forget you,” Hansol is like. “This way we’ll find each other again.”_

_“I’m sure we’ll find each othr,” Minghao is like. “Seoul isn’t that big.”_

_“Me too,” Hansol is like, and even though he’s about to black the fuck out on a children’s swing he can actually believe himself when he says this. “Like,_ Your Name. _The Japanese movie. We’ll find each other.”_

_Minghao hihihihi-s. “Hansol it’s not like parallel universes it’s a park a few metres away from my apartment.”_

_Hansol shuts Minghao up by kissing him and then singing, “I’d fiiiiind you a milllion times over agaiiiiin,” and in reply to this, Minghao is like, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” whilst grinning his ass off._

 

 

 

“I’m Xu Minghao,” Minghao says.

“Chwe Hansol,” Hansol says, taking Minghao’s hand. “Do you know enough about me to kiss you? Or would that be considered improper?”

“Eh,” Minghao says, smiling again, his eyes gleaming. “We’ve already done it before. And we got couple tattoos before even knowing each other’s surnames. Fuck being considered improper,” and before he’s even finished the sentence, Hansol has already fucked being considered improper twice and maybe thrice, and he’s leaning in to kiss Minghao, and maybe fate doesn’t really exist at all but well, sometimes coincidences do happen to line up perfectly. And every coincidence in the world seemed to line up for Hansol to meet Minghao.

“Every coincidence the universe lined up for this to happen,” says Hansol. He pulls away, resting his forehead against Minghao’s. Imagine that. Resting his forehead against someone else's. He could just about _implode_. “Once yesterday, and then a second time today. So, let’s indulge in that.”

“What?” says Minghao, amused tone resting thick in his voice.

“I’m talking to myself,” Hansol says. “Let’s just kiss again.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> if it wasn't clear minghao's POV being basically completely fucked up was an artistic choice i made to like, make it a little more humorous and drunken. h i've been struggling with inspiration so i decided to just wing it and write something really bad and publish it anyway hashtag lol
> 
> [come send me hate on the ol' twitteroo](https://twitter.com/greeneryrains)
> 
> (black box art therapy class story here was based on ever fuckn hilarious penguinz0/cr1tikal and his story in youtube video “anime made my university afraid of me” thank you my king)


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